


Til Death

by Mad_Merry



Category: Uncharted (Video Games)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Reincarnation, Angst with a Happy Ending, M/M, Temporary Character Death
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-14
Updated: 2016-09-14
Packaged: 2018-08-14 23:13:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,051
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8032756
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mad_Merry/pseuds/Mad_Merry
Summary: He’s not the same man he was then. He isn’t. He’s not a good person, but he’s not that any more. Whoever Nate was, he isn’t either. No one is the same their second, third, fourth time around. Rafe is just an unfortunate bastard that has to carry some pieces along with him; and live with the identity issues along with it.





	Til Death

**Author's Note:**

> Remember how I said I was gonna be more active? I kept my promise, buuut probably not what everyone wants >w>;

 He remembers how it felt to die, the instance of it. The sheer finality.  All he had done is look up, flames glinting threateningly against the gold and jewels around him, violent orange and red in his vision before nothing. Absolutely _nothing_. He can’t remember how. Maybe head trauma, maybe his spine was snapped and he was graced with a swift end. But that’s not the part that matters; that’s not the part that haunts him in his dreams at night, it’s the moment before. The thundering violence in his heart, the rage in his mind and the heat of fire against his skin. Sweat and blood, vengeance and the want to _kill_.

 

He’s woken up from it a few times. Every now and then it still jars him awake in shivers and gasps, fingers desperately grasping for the warm body next to him, digging into the fabric of a shirt and dragging. Dragging until there’s a solid arm around his waist and soft mumbles against his ear.

 

 It was a bad night; he knows it as soon as he opens his eyes and there’s a low throbbing in his skull. A hand rises to try and rub it away, along with ridding himself of the last few remnants of those memories. Violent, vivid every single time. It’s still on the early side, the room set in soft grays and blues instead of vibrant yellow from the sunrise. Dawn then, unsurprising to hear unintelligible talking and the tinging of glasses. 

Good, he doesn’t want to sit in silence right now.

Rafe knows in every part of him he’s not going back to sleep, rolling over and out of the soft covers of bed to press bare feet against thin carpet. A deep breath, admiring the way his body expands to take it and how oddly refreshed he feels that way. Alive. But it doesn’t stop the heaviness in his stomach, the tightness in his skull that makes a too familiar panic start to bubble dangerously.

He needs a distraction.

When it came to apartments, Nate had poor taste. He was sentimental, covering every blank surface in the small space with pictures, framed documents, shelves for preserved artifacts from his findings at work. His collections were chaotic, untamed and invasive of Rafes own little minimalist world.

 Most of the time it was an irritating part of sharing an apartment with the younger Drake, but at the moment Rafe was grateful for it. It was easier to tighten his hold on his surrounding with so much familiarity around him. the endless arrays of pictures from their trips, the smiling faces of their friends meeting his eyes because Nate was a tech grouch, liked having physical copies of things like photos. 

It helped him remember each thing. Like Scotland, and Peurto Rico, the way Nate had gotten sunburnt during their time in Mexico because he was an idiot and didn’t wear sunscreen. Their indoor barbecue that ended with hard lemonade and sharing stories on the patio. Those experiences were real, current and his to hold onto. It pulls another steadying breath into his lungs as he runs his fingers across the white-ish wall paper of the hall way. How it was _not_ charred and cracking wood, how his skin was free of cuts and burns. How his heart was free from a frightening iron grip of anger and desperation.

By the time he reaches the kitchen, he can manage more than short breaths, the pounding in his head has subsided to an ache that can be cured with an aspirin, heart giving a gentle jump at the sight of what’s truly grounding.

There, watching bacon and eggs intently was Nate. Pajama clad, messy haired and trying to pay attention to his breakfast in hopes of not burning it for once. It’s the last piece to dragging himself back to reality, nothing that soft and domestic ever in his nightmares, never that calming.

It’s not until the taller is plating his well guarded meal that he notices Rafe, a warm and surprised smile blooming pleasant heat in his chest. 

“Good morning, hungry?” No, he isn’t. The thought of swallowing anything makes his throat tighten in a threat.

“Yeah.” Nate chuckles, setting the plate of eggs down and pulling some bread out next. “You make coffee?”

Two pieces of bread in the toaster, everything still a little sharp around the edges in sound and detail. “Course, might need to warm it up a little though.” 

His lover wasn’t lying, the pot’s lukewarm and a little dull. The routine was therapeutic though, his favorite mug heavy in his hands and the swirl of creamer more appreciated than usual. Even cooled, the taste pulls a sigh out of his nose that’s nothing but satisfaction.  Nate always made better coffee than him, a hidden talent he has yet to crack of its origins. Considering Victor made god-awful sludge that could make your chest feel explosive. But Nate’s was rich, deep and perfect with a splash of half & half and sugar.

“You want jam or butter?”

He doesn’t entirely register Nate is talking directly to him, instead focus pivoted on the singular cracked tile in their kitchen. Thin, but still something he looks at every day and thinks ‘I need to get that fixed,’ And it feels oddly sympathetic, a single tile in a mass of white forced to perform the same as its flawless counterparts, but always looked at flawed. Cracked, damaged.

The hand on his shoulder startles him a bit too much, a hand that’s not his around his mug before his fingers loosen in reflex.

“Rafe.” That was Nate, voice soft but laced with a concern that the shorter hates he’s so familiar with. 

“Huh? Sorry I--what?”

“I said, do you want butter or jam on your toast?” Rafe doesn’t fight it when Nate takes the mug, setting it on the counter with a dull thunk.

“Oh, uh both.” He expects that to be the end of the conversation, for the history nerd to pull away and continue preparing their breakfast. But instead the hands slip to his waist, squeezing comfortably to get his attention.

“Bad night huh?” Rafes’ shoulders sag in defeat, that being the only signal Nate needs to turn the editor around in his hold. It makes him really look at the taller, his blue eyes soft with understanding and honest concern. He hates the fact that Nate was one of the few that looked at him like that. Listened to him.

It’s why he doesn’t deny his rough night, giving a resigned, “Yes.” It helps, knowing the low  _‘ah, Rafe.’_ isn’t pity or thinly veiled frustration. It’s genuine, the hug that pulls him right into Nates’ chest solid and comforting.

“Same part?” Always, the same part over and over. Always terrifying, like watching something out of your control in first person but feeling every bit of it. He’s always attacking someone, a faceless figure that flails and dodges desperately, garbled nonsense that must be them begging for their life and something about it always hurts more than the actual dying part.

Sometimes it stops with him towering over the faceless stranger, a piece of his memory that was neglected for some reason or another. Nothing else was blurred out, but their face always was.

He doesn’t need it to know there was terror and dread.

“Same part.” There’s a sigh, and it _is_ frustration but not at him. At the fact that Rafe is  one of the unfortunate few that remembers. It’s not _normal_ to remember, books and forums always promise the same thing. You die, and you live on again. You die refreshed, cleansed whether you were good or bad.

Not Rafe, he gets the pleasant hell of reliving his ending moment. Forced to see the wrath and cruelty of his old self and the pain he caused in the name of something frivolous. Reliving that blind rage over, and over, and godamn over.

He’s tried psychs analysis, hypnosis, even reduced himself to the hidden parts of the internet to find out where it came from. Why he remembers and it’s so rare. _Flynn_ remembers, Nate’s irritatingly clever coworker who had to start taking sleep medication to keep it at bay. He said the same thing once, tinged with wine and eyes alarmingly dark for him, leaning into Rafe’s space.

“I remember every bit of it but the faces. Like they get erased. I killed someone, I know it.” And that stuck with Rafe, left him sick with worry over what that meant about people like them. Were they all set to a sick, tragic fate done by their own wrath? It seemed that way; the few rare secret discussions he found said the same things each time. 

_I went down fighting._

_It wasn’t peaceful, it was painful._

_I wasn’t ready to die_.

_“C’mon **Legend**.”_

Rafe clenches his eyes shut as another wave of barely contained panic washes over him, pressing his face into Nate’s shoulder and forcing himself to take deep breaths. 

Nate’s hand rises to bury in his hair, chin resting on his head in a secure embrace and it pulls a relieved hum from him. His lovers’ soft “It’s alright,” only eases his heart more.

He has a good life this time; a good job, good friends and an amazing boyfriend. At night though, it’s hard to ignore and swallow. He was a bad person, who sealed his own fate with irrationality and anger. He feels...guilty about that. That someone that awful gets a second chance at life, and gets lucky with all this goodness and warmth and love.

He’s not the same man he was then. He _isn’t_.   _That_ Rafe--there had been something wrong there. Dark, twisted and groomed by a lack of exactly that. No love, no compassion. He’s not a good person, but he’s not that any more. Whoever Nate was, he isn’t either. No one is the same their second, third, fourth time around. That guilt, it’s something he has to work on, learn to let go of.

He fights a little when Nate pulls away, gripping the back of his shirt in soft objection. 

“I burned the toast.” 

“I don’t want toast right now, I want you.” That always works, tipping his head upwards the same moment Nate lowers his, meeting halfway in a soft kiss. But Nate is right, Rafes’ coffee is more than likely ice cold now, and their breakfast is probably no better. It’s a minor inconvenience though, compared to the contentedness in his chest and steady weight of Nate’s frame against his. Reliable, grounding.

He’s not ever going to take it for granted

“Still hungry?” Not really, but he knows he can and should eat. Besides, no amount of high end food can damper the taste of bacon, always somehow done just the way he likes it. 

“Starving.” And the moment passes, Rafe finally releasing Nate so he can relieve the victimized bread and replace them with fresh ones. Rafe microwaves his coffee this time, the heat of the mug and salty taste of bacon feeling like the right way to start the morning. Nate reads over papers at the table, not noticing when Rafe steals his last piece of bacon until he’s halfway finished with it. The offended squawk pulls a smile from him, the normalcy of the morning finally freeing him from the remnants of his nightmare.

It’ll happen again. There’s no point in false hope of a peaceful sleep. He’ll wake up in the same state the coming night. Maybe it’ll be at three in the morning, maybe it’ll be five minutes into bed. Who knows, who cares.

That was then, this is now. 

Nate will go to work and bid him farewell with a kiss. Then he’ll turn around to do it again, and again until Rafe has to push him into the apartment hall trying not to grin. Rafe will do the dishes, make a call to his publisher and finish off the pot of coffee. Maybe Sam will impede his presence, maybe Rafe will look in the mirror and try to ignore the developing bags.

Life goes on, and hopefully at some point all the mistakes made before will be forgotten.

**Author's Note:**

> This ship is my guilty pleasure, I've been itching to write something for a while. But I also had literally half a dozen other projects that demanded my equal attention. My rp partner tags honored me with being his co-author in a fantastic delmond idea, so give that a shot : D
> 
> And I have many other surprises that will be coming in this next couple months, including updates and such ;3 But let me know what you thought of this, and if you want more!


End file.
